Кроха - Dedication
This same morning, in Anchorage, the Greenlaws parted from Mike and Lindsey Flannery, watched them take off in a light plane for a few more days of fishing north of Anchorage. The Greenlaws spent the morning comfortably before the Inn’s fireplace. Their flexible schedule and their several side trips aboard small ferries had been exciting, but they were tired out, they missed Kit, they worried about her—it was time to go home.
And it was much earlier that morning that, up at the new shelter construction, Kate Osborne ended up crying in the arms of Ryan’s uncle Scott, her tears drenching Scotty’s red beard. Kate wasn’t sure how this had happened. Scotty wasn’t sure what Kate was crying about. He knew she was grieving for Ben. He knew that the Firettis’ old yellow cat had died, that Ryan and Billy were sad about him, too.
But no one could tell Scotty how deep the grieving went, no one could tell him Misto’s story. In Scotty’s arms, she didn’t try to stop the tears; she just let herself weep.
She was well aware that Joe Grey and Ryan were glancing in their direction, trying not to show their interest in this sudden tenderness—but did they have to stare?
When she had arrived at the shelter site, parking beside Ryan’s red king cab, Scotty had looked up from where he was installing a window. He had paused in his work, watching her approach, had looked hard at her, at her tear-blotched face. She had headed on back into the building, but he’d stopped her.
“Kate?”
She’d turned, looking at him in spite of her tears. He’d switched off the drill, laid it down and, as natural as the shining of the sun, he’d put his arms around her, had held her, let her cry against him. Across the yard Joe Grey, draped over Ryan’s shoulder, watched the couple until Ryan politely walked away to disappear behind the building.
“When did this start?” she asked the tomcat. “It’s just this week that I’ve noticed.”
Joe shrugged. “How do I know when it started? You put Scotty up here working on the shelter, and Kate is here all the time. How can he work around Kate Osborne and not be aware of her, she’s a knockout.”
Ryan looked at him. She said nothing. She moved farther back among the raw wooden beams and posts behind the main building. Sunlight warmed the plastered block walls of the shelter and warmed the three outdoor enclosures—these open-air spaces would be living quarters for dozens of feral cats who would not want to be shut inside. Wild-living cats that CatFriends would neuter, give their shots, and turn loose again in their own colonies.
Ryan said, “If Scotty and Kate get serious, that does present problems.”
Joe agreed. Scotty and Kate would be another couple where one partner knew the cats’ secret and one didn’t. Scotty had no notion the cats could speak. Not an easy way to live, where one member of a happy couple had to harbor lies, as did Charlie Harper. No happily wed couple wanted the dark specter of deception shadowing their honesty with each other. And in Kate’s case, the stress could be worse.
Kate, who had divorced a philandering husband long ago, said she’d never trust another man. Scotty, the loner, dated casually but had never found a woman he loved—he said he wouldn’t marry for less than a deep, true commitment. How would Kate hide the truth from him, when she herself had such a close connection to speaking cats?
Joe looked around for Billy, wondering if he, too, had been watching Kate and Scotty, but then he remembered this was a full school day in the work/school schedule that had been set up for the boy. Joe had turned on Ryan’s shoulder so he could look behind them when Ryan spoke softly. “Look,” she whispered, facing away toward the tree-sheltered Pamillon mansion that stood beyond the rise.
Across the hilly meadow, on the remains of a fallen stone wall, a brown tabby crouched. “One of the clowder cats?” Kate said. “Oh, have they come back from the Netherworld, too? But Kit and Pan can’t know, they didn’t say anything.”
Joe stretched up from her shoulder to look. The tabby was gone, but a white face peered out from the shadows; he could barely see her pale calico against the light stone wall. “Willow,” he said. “That’s Willow! I don’t see the tabby, but Willow’s back! They’re back!” He leaped down to join the clowder cats, racing away.
Ryan stood looking after him. What would this mean? Were the ferals still fine with her building the shelter here? They’d better be, at this late stage. They’d known about it before they descended down the tunnels to that other world. She would not have begun the project without Joe and Dulcie and Kit and Pan seeking out the wild clowder and telling them. Asking them, she thought, smiling.
The ferals had seemed all right with the plan, had seemed comfortable with the close proximity to the rescues. They were pleased with this caring human help for cats in need. Though no one had been sure, in fact, that the little group of feral cats would return from the Netherworld; there were charms and wonders in both lands.
Kate had situated the shelter, and the road that approached it, nearly half a mile from the mansion, away from the ferals’ preferred hunting grounds, from the overgrown rose gardens and the woods beyond. Ryan and Kate hoped, as the shelter was populated, as volunteers came and went, they wouldn’t drive the shy little band away. They would never want to do that. They had already posted small signs around the mansion grounds marking that area dangerous and off-limits.
When Ryan heard the sound of the drill once more and saw Scotty back at work, she found Kate inside the main building in a large communal room, busy with her drawing pad. Planning the cat perches, the overhead walks, the lofts and hiding places to entice the resident cats. Laying down her drawing pad, Kate handed Ryan one end of her tape measure. Neither spoke of Scotty. Kate smiled and hugged Ryan, showed her what she wanted to measure, and said nothing more.
Joe Grey galloped across the wide, hilly berm and through scattered trees into the weedy grounds of the stone mansion, searching for Willow and the ferals. There, by the stone wall: Willow came out, stepping delicately, smiling, then rubbing whiskers with Joe. One by one the ferals appeared to greet him. Soon he was surrounded by seven cats all talking at once. He followed them deep behind the big house where no human would see or hear them. Their eyes were bright with a secret, their tails lashing. There was no small talk, not even tales of their return up the tunnels. What were they so eager to tell him? He had no notion that their message would send him racing away again for a phone.
The ferals greeted him with nose touches and rollovers and a little crazy chasing, then they led him to a narrow dirt road back in the trees beyond the mansion. “You’ll want to see this,” pale-coated Sage said. “This might be for the police. These people that were here made our fur bristle. Those humans coming here into the ruins, they were scum.”
The cats led him down the old sunken road, hidden deep in the woods, where he and Dulcie had sometimes wandered. It was hardly wide enough for a car, so cars never came there. But now a car had come, its tire marks fresh and deep in the mud where a small rivulet crossed. Joe could see where the vehicle had parked and where it had turned around, making several passes, its bumpers and fenders biting into the earthen berm. The feral cats crowded around him, dark tabby Coyote, creamy Tansy, light tabby Sage, and Willow of the pale calico coat, all seven of the small band of ferals that had ventured down to the Netherworld. Willow said, “This is your kind of hunting, Joe Grey. Hunting humans. Those people smelled of evil.”
“The car nearly got stuck,” Coyote said, the long-eared tabby smiling with pleasure. “They came here in daylight yesterday. The first thing they did was turn the car around. Took them a long time, big clumsy wheels spinning in the mud,” and that made Coyote laugh. “Way too big for this narrow road. They waited until dark to leave. Hiding,” the dark tabby said. “Hiding from what?”
“Did they see you?” Joe said.
“Not us,” said Sage, glancing at Tansy. “They had a boy, a big, rude boy, he got out and stamped around in the woods and broke branches and threw them. We made ourselves scarce.”
“What kind of car?” Joe said, not expecting them to remember. “What make?” The ferals didn’t pay much attention to man’s noisy machines, except usually to avoid them.
“Brown,” Willow said. “Like a station wagon.”
“An SUV?”
“I think so. It opened in the back so you could see through to the front. There were suitcases, blankets, as if for traveling. We could see the mark that said Ford. The license was all mud, caked and dry. But close up, you could read it. We thought you might want to know what that was?”
Joe Grey smiled. “Of course I do.” Well, the ferals did know, from past encounters, what police work was about. When Willow told him the number he said it over twice, committing it to memory. Now he burned to get to a phone. He said his hasty good-byes, nudged each cat gently and touched noses and promised to return soon.
“Most likely,” Joe said, “a detective will be out to look the scene over, to photograph the tire marks and those footprints back and forth into the woods.”
“What about our pawprints?” Willow said.
Joe thought about that. “They know there are feral cats up here, they think you are one of the wild bands that CatFriends feeds. Charlie has made it clear you are to be left alone, to be protected. They won’t be surprised to see pawprints.” He gave Willow a final friendly nudge, spun around and raced back through the woods and across the berm to Ryan, praying she hadn’t left.
He found her in the car, sitting quietly. He leaped in. “Thank God you waited.”
“What else would I do? You take off like gangbusters, all riled up. I knew I’d better wait.”
Standing in her lap he snatched up her cell phone and hit the button for the station—hoping he wouldn’t get Evijean.
Of course he got Evijean. “Captain Harper is not . . .” she began with her delaying routine.
“Evijean,” Joe said coldly, “I have the license number the chief is waiting for. If he doesn’t get itnow, pronto, you’ll never get a recommendation for another job, no matter where you look—and believe me, you’ll be looking.”
Evijean put him through.
The conversation was brief. Max said, “I’m putting the information out as we speak. We’ll see what this gets. Again, many thanks. This could reel in our fish.” And he hung up.
When Joe ended the call Ryan grinned and caught him up in a hug that, as usual, deeply embarrassed him.
When he explained what the ferals had found, she hugged him again, and he felt her tear dampen his cheek. “Those dear clowder cats. I can’t believe they’ve grown so close to humans—to care about human problems, to get that information to you.”
She looked at him, frowning. “If you hadn’t been here, do you think one of them would have come down into the village to find you? The village, the streets and buildings, seem so threatening to them.”
“You and Kate were here, you’re here every day. And Charlie. It was Charlie who sprung that trap for them when one of them was captured, sprung it and crushed it.” Joe looked at her coolly. “They would have come to you,” he said with assurance.
She nodded. “They’ve helped us, helped the law before. They do trust humans. When Sage was so badly hurt by that killer—when he was so scared—he put all his trust in John Firetti to help him—and that was hard,” she said. “Sage was scared to death. But now,” she said, “what made Tekla and Sam turn up in the hills onto that narrow little road instead of hitting the freeway?”
“When they left the rental,” Joe said, “did they see an unmarked surveillance car? Or thoughtthey saw one? Or they passed a black-and-white cruising, maybe it slowed to watch them?”
She smiled. “Whatever happened, they got nervous. Found a place to hole up until dark, thenthey doubled back to the freeway.” She started the car, glancing down at Joe. “I guess you’ll want a ride down to the station, to see how this falls out?”
“I guess I’d like that,” Joe Grey said, twitching a whisker.
“The law will find them now, Joe, with this information. They’re sure to stay on the freeways if they want to make any distance.”
“Right. But which freeway?” He thought of the tangle of highways that led out of Molena Point. “Which freeway, Ryan? And heading where?”
30
Alone in her tree house Kit huddled among her cushions sad and grieving, still licking away tears for Misto. Joe was with Ryan, up at the shelter. Dulcie would be cuddled close to Wilma. And Kit had parted from Pan at the Firettis’: Mary and John need him, they need Misto’s son close. I need him, too, but they need him more. And I need Lucinda and Pedric, I need my dear humans. I need not to be alone just now.
Why had the three of them ever parted? What if something happened to her old couple before they could return from that huge, cold land? But what if something bad had happened in the Netherworld? How would that be any different? How would Lucinda and Pedric feel if Pan and I hadn’t returned?
Besides, she thought sensibly, you could get hit by a truck right here in the village. Life is never certain, no one said it was all neatly laid out and safe. No one said life comes with a guarantee. Pedric always tells Lucinda that. You have to walk quick, watch quicker, and take your chances.
But still she grieved. She napped, and when, waking, still she felt lonely, she left her tree house and went down into the gardens and wild fields to hunt.
It was late that evening that she slipped into Kate’s basement apartment, where Kate had installed a cat door. Having feasted on mice, she licked all the blood off her paws and whiskers to make herself presentable if she were to sleep in Kate’s bed. The cat door made her feel so welcome that she slept there with Kate that night, the next night, and the next; in fact she moved right in. Missing Lucinda and Pedric, she took solace in Kate’s gentle ways and in their small suppers together that were indeed more companionable than any lone hunt. In bed at night they talked about the Netherworld and about Kate’s own adventures there in the darker realms that Kit and Pan had avoided.
“The magic is all but gone,” Kate said. “As the magic dies, fewer and fewer children are born. Without the magic that includes love, those babies who do live are pale and weak. Even the shape-shifters’ skills are fading . . . I can no longer change,” Kate said sadly. “After I decided notto do that anymore, I tried twice.” She looked shyly at Kit. “I couldn’t. I miss looking in the mirror and seeing that lovely, cream-colored queen looking back at me, my golden eyes and ivory whiskers, the marmalade streaks in my fur.”
Kate shook her head, embarrassed. “I was lovely,” she said longingly. “Though not as beautiful as you.” She stroked Kit’s mélange of black, brown, and orange fur, as soft as silk. “I couldn’t change,” she said again sadly. “My own magic was gone.”
Kit felt sad for her. But she couldn’t change, either, she never had; in the Netherworld she and Pan had tried. But they were happy; they didn’t need the complications that came with being a human person. Mortgages, income taxes, stalled cars. Let humans deal with those irritations. Maybe next time around she and Pan would be human, burdened with human responsibilities. But right now they were free spirits.
